


the coroner will call it a broken heart

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:46:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4321899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma’s not even sure she believes in a system that would identify the individual who should, arguably, be the single most important person in her life when it’s too late for her to do anything about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the coroner will call it a broken heart

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the [tumblr post](http://aceofultron.tumblr.com/post/115638999945): "soulmate au where instead of your soulmates first words to you written on your skin it’s their last words you ever hear them say so you don’t know who your soulmate is until you lose them"
> 
> Also, I started this _ages_ ago, so it doesn't take into account anything from the second half of season 2.
> 
> The title comes from The Band Perry's "Better Dig Two."

 

 

Grant has words. Not like Thomas’s, which always looked so pale they were nearly invisible until he was laid out in his coffin and they stood out like a neon sign on his pale skin. Grant’s are dark and rough, curled into the arch of his foot like a stone.

He hears them a lot, said by people he knows aren’t his soulmate, and growing up he thinks they might not hurt him so much if he didn’t have to carry them everywhere.

At school they make him tell what kind of mark he has. Some have first words like Thomas, some have marks, one or two have names. Grant is the only one with a mark that stands out like a bruise. He’s the only one who won’t know who his soulmate is until it’s too late. That’s probably for the best, given what the words are.

The counselor with the gentle smile and soothing voice sits him down and tries to tell him there’s nothing wrong with his mark. Last words don’t mean he can’t have a whole lifetime of love and happiness with his soulmate before the end.

Grant pretends to smile to make the patronizing words stop. He knows the truth. He knows what the words actually are. He’s unlovable.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma’s death is not going according to plan. Forget any dreams she might have had of surviving to old age and dying peacefully in her bed. (She knows the statistics. Working for SHIELD dramatically dropped the odds of any easy sort of death, but going into the field? She isn’t a fool.

Though she did expect to make it more than two months.)

Jumping from the plane and spending several terrifying minutes in freefall seemed so easy when her feet were on the nice, solid floor of the lab. In actual execution, it’s a lot worse than she imagined. She tumbles and twists, unable to orient herself in all the wind. Everything she tries only ends up overcompensating, making things worse than before. If she had time to eat recently, she surely would have lost her lunch by now.

She thinks she must be hallucinating when she sees Ward coming after her. Perhaps it’s the final stage of the disease and too bad she won’t be able to make note of it in her report. But then it _hurts_ when he grabs her out of the sky and pulls her to him. She’s weak from the virus and raw from the wind and he’s all solid muscle and hard bones. She clings to him on instinct and he repays her with a sharp pain in her leg. Before she can think to ask what it was or what he even thinks he’s _doing_ (he’s exposed himself, broken quarantine, is he _insane_?), the parachute he’s had the foresight to bring along opens and she’s glad all over again for her empty stomach.

He holds her so tight she thinks she might break in his arms. Once their descent has steadied, he tosses her into a bridal carry that has her burying her face in his neck in terror.

“I got you,” he says, again and again, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as her.

She’s still so sick and afraid and exhausted - and there’s a buzzing in her ears and her body feels _wrong_ around her - she can’t think. So it takes her longer than it should to realize what he’s saying and what it means.

“No,” she moans into his neck. She pushes back to look at him with wide, mournful eyes. Bad enough she’s leaving, but she’s going to take him with her unless someone at SHIELD manages to work up a cure. “Oh no. Ward, I- I am so sorry.”

If he answers, she doesn’t hear. (Of _course_ she doesn’t hear.) The buzzing becomes a roar and the pressure building in her veins finally breaks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma’s mark is a wicked bruise trailing from the side of her left breast down to her waist. Last words, the most tragic of all soulmate possibilities. (Not that Jemma’s even sure she believes in a system that would identify the individual who should, arguably, be the single most important person in her life when it’s too late for her to do anything about it.) They’re short and practically beg her to dream up all sorts of scenarios in which she might hear them.

She hears them quite often, actually, from well-meaning individuals who open doors for her when her arms are full or pull boxes from the top shelves. She even worried it might be Fitz once when he used his engineer’s hands to fix her broken microscope instead of letting her call tech support in.

(Turns out, Fitz has a name. Lucky him.)

She didn’t think much about her soulmate while she was fighting the virus. There was a cursory thought that she must have crossed paths with him already, but nothing more. A soulmate who would never know her name was far less important than her soon-to-be grieving parents or the lives of her team. To that end, she needed to find a way off the Bus without giving the others the chance to stop her and didn’t have a thought to spare for her wayward soulmate.

At least she didn’t until Grant Ward jumped after her and said her words in her ear moments before her certain death.

She’s always known life is unfair, but this is just cruel.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She comes awake, mouth full of salt water. Ward is holding her up and when he says, “I got you,” he probably means it to be reassuring. Between the shock of being alive at all and the still raw pain of hearing him say it before, she lashes out.

He does the smart thing and lets her go. If she’s going to drown herself, they’ll both be better off if he waits to save her until after she’s tired out.

Luckily the shock eases, tamped down by the vast emptiness all around. They’re in the middle of the Atlantic; there’s too much distance in every direction, like looking down and seeing nothing but sky and clouds beneath her.

“You’re okay,” he says when she reaches for him.

Something in her relaxes now that he’s spoken again. She’s been holding everything in for hours and that one little bit of slack unleashes it all. She can feel herself crying and her lungs aren’t working right, like they don’t know whether to laugh or scream. The middle of the ocean is _not_ a good place to have a panic attack.

Ward curses and hurriedly shrugs the parachute off before dragging her to him. He gets one arm under her knees and cradles her to him, somehow managing to keep them both above water. She sobs into his neck and would feel bad about ruining his shirt if the salt water didn’t already have that covered.

“I’m sorry,” she says once she’s feeling reasonably capable of holding herself together.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks tentatively. It’s sweet of him to offer when they both know it’s likely the last thing he wants - that he’s been _this_ comforting is out of character enough - but she shakes her head no as she eases out of his arms.

“What happened?” she asks instead. She’s alive when she should be dead and he doesn’t seem the least surprised.

He tells her what he knows, which isn’t much as it turns out. His plan to save her was even more hastily put together than her plan to jump. He does know that the antiserum worked - at least according to a very frantic Fitz, who was actually preparing to jump after her though he hasn’t an ounce of training.

“You pulsed, just like the rat,” Ward says. “Had a hell of a time keeping you in my arms when you started floating.”

The very real fear that her laughter will turn hysterical is enough to stop it as soon as it starts. She lets the soothing movement of the waves carry her and Ward’s touch anchor her. He hasn’t stopped touching her since she left his arms, a gentle reassurance that she won’t be allowed to drift away.

“I thought you were my soulmate,” she blurts out. Her cheeks burn and she closes her eyes on Ward’s surprised smile.

“Seriously?” There’s definitely a laugh in his voice, but he very chivalrously tries to keep it hidden.

She lets herself dip a little too deep in the water, cooling the blush that’s spread down her neck. Ward’s hand is firm beneath her elbow. “I have last words,” she explains, “and, well, you said them. It made sense - for the two seconds before I passed out.”

This time he does laugh.

“Yes, thank you. That makes me feel _much_ better.”

His hand moves up her arm, smoothing over her skin comfortingly. “I’m not laughing at _you_.” It’s a rather poor defense, she thinks. “It’s just- I’ve got last words too.”

She’s surprised to say the least. First words are practically invisible on a person’s skin. Symbols and names are usually more obvious. But last words always stand out, whether they be dark or pale, they’re plainly visible. Jemma’s seen nearly every inch of Ward in the last few weeks thanks to his habit of getting himself unnecessarily injured in the line of duty and she hasn’t seen any mark at all.

He sees the reason for her surprise. “They’re on my foot, okay? Just don’t tell Skye.”

Jemma can only imagine what mischief Skye would get up to trying to get a glimpse of Ward’s mark, and hastily promises to do nothing of the sort.

“Anyway, I laughed because you would never say my words, okay?”

She puzzles over that for barely a moment before her mouth curls into a smile. (Laughing and smiling, either she’s in shock or he’s had a great deal of practice comforting damsels.) “Grant Ward,” she says, mock-sternly, “do you have a foul-mouthed soulmate waiting for you somewhere?”

He drags her closer and wraps his arms loosely around her waist to keep her there. “Something like that, yeah.”

She doesn’t know why it should hurt to know he can never be hers, and blames the sharpness in her chest on the day she’s had.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Simmons said she thought - however briefly - that he might be her soulmate, he couldn’t help but laugh. Grant knows himself. He’s not a nice guy or even a good guy most of the time. Anyone the universe would pair him up with has gotta be just as terrible.

It’s not until later that he realizes what’s wrong with this equation. He always thought last words were a consolation prize from the universe.

You’re terrible. Your soulmate is terrible. At least you won’t have to pretend to care about each other.

But Simmons isn’t terrible. She’s _nice_. She’s probably the most genuinely nice person Grant’s ever met.

He can’t look at her after he touches the staff. All he can think about when he sees her is her words. He imagines her out of those long sleeves and high collars she’s always in and sees the words, black like bruises left by a man even worse than Grant could ever be. In his mind’s eye, they dig into her thigh or slash across her back. It’s when he sees them wrapped around her throat that he finally leaves the lab altogether.

It’s not fair. Grant never deserved to be happy and he never expected it. But what kind of a world is it that Simmons got stuck with last fucking words?

 

 

* * *

 

 

She has inklings of what’s happening to her in the weeks following her fall, but it’s not until Ward is under the influence of the berserker staff and his sharp-tongued outburst has her retreating to the dark corners of the cargo hold like a wounded teenager, that the reality becomes undeniable.

She has a crush on him.

It’s not a surprise, really. He’s by far the most physically attractive person on the Bus and she’s always been drawn to muscular men. He also acted out an especially tragic version of her soulmate meeting, live and in terrifying 3D. It’s only natural that she would latch onto him in such an adolescent way, using him as a surrogate for the soulmate she’ll never really know.

And it _is_ adolescent. She’s far too old to be crying over a few hurtful words.

She pushes her feelings down - at least she _can_ \- and returns to the lab, where she might actually be able to do something to help him.

Only, as it turns out, she can’t. There is nothing she can do to combat the lasting effects of the Asgardian technology influencing Ward. He _jumped out of a plane_ to save her and now she’s helpless to do the same for him. The guilt goes a long way to stifling her crush. It’s better that he’s not her soulmate. How much worse would she feel knowing all her knowledge and good intentions aren’t enough to help him?

She thinks she might truly be over it, right up until the flight to what they’ll soon discover to be Providence. Skye fills the awkward silence with the story of how they invaded the Hub, including what she and Ward did in a storage closet along the way.

That sharp pain in her chest returns, only this time Jemma can put a name to it: jealousy. Which is _silly_. So, she had a crush on Ward and thought once (twice) that he might be her soulmate. That doesn’t mean she has any claim to him. She doesn’t _own_ him. He’s free to kiss whomever he wishes.

Six days later, as she examines Agent Koenig’s body, the sharpness becomes a hollow ache. It never goes away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a gun in her hand - not an ICER, a _real_ gun - and Ward on the other end of it. He’s too far away to reach her before she fires and there’s no one around but the two of them. She’s finally going to follow through on her promise.

“You won’t do it,” he says. He actually has the gall to smile at her like they’re _friends_. (They were never friends.)

She laughs, dry and pained. “Do you have any idea what I went through to get here?” The lies to Coulson and the others, the bribes made to HYDRA agents she should have shot on sight. “I’m not going to let you hurt us anymore.”

He shakes his head. “I’m _helping_ you.” She scoffs, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “And you won’t shoot me, Simmons. You don’t have it in you.”

“You have _no idea_ what I have in me. The woman you knew on the Bus is dead. You killed her.”

“Simmons…” He takes a small step forward. She takes one back.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare try to talk me down with more of your lies. Everything you ever were to us - every kindness, every small, insignificant gesture - it was all a lie. Do you have any idea what that’s like? To trust someone so completely - with everything from your life to just putting the bloody toilet seat down - and then to find out it was all part of some calculated deception?” She shakes her head slowly, still amazed even after all this time by how much of a monster he really is. “I hate you.” She’s never hated anyone before. Even Quinn, who took Dr. Hall and nearly took Skye. Even Raina and Garrett and Whitehall. They’re all terrible people to be sure, but to _hate_ them… They’re all still _people_ and deserve some measure of compassion. But Ward? Ward is scum.

Something strange passes over his face. She hopes it’s guilt. It’s the least he could do to feel some small measure of it before he dies. Then he’s running at a full sprint, coming straight at her. She fires and the world explodes around her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grant really is trying to help. That’s why he’s in this particular, seemingly abandoned warehouse. The glaringly obvious clues he left for HYDRA must have brought Simmons here too, and just like them, she has no idea he spent half the night rigging the south wall to explode the second HYDRA walks through the door.

He’s still trying to figure out how he’s going to get her out of here without getting himself shot (maybe just a little shot? He’ll take a little bit shot if he has to) when she says them. Those three little words he’s been carrying all his life. He was so sure all those months ago that it couldn’t be her, that there was _no way_ she’d ever say them to anyone, even him. He was wrong about that and in this moment he knows - he _knows_ \- that they’re the last words he’s ever gonna hear her say.

She’s not terrible. She’s not like him at all. She’s good and kind and nice. And he’s the asshole who’s been letting her down time and time again, driving her to do this. He’s not gonna let her down this time.

He runs, no longer worried about degrees of injury. The bullet catches him in the chest, but he’s got enough momentum going to tackle her to the ground behind a cargo container. There’s a distant click as HYDRA finally shows up. Everything is light and noise and Simmons tucked in his arms.

The adrenaline fades fast (or maybe it’s just leaking out, that’s a real possibility). He’s losing strength, but has enough to check that she’s fine, she’s okay. There’s a cut to her head that’s bleeding pretty bad and she’s sure to be banged up, but she’ll live.

She’ll live.

He lifts a hand to wipe away the blood and it unsteadies him. She tries to catch him, but he sinks hard onto his shoulder. Everything hurts at once. The bullet wound makes breathing difficult and his back feels like it’s been ripped open. It probably has. He rests his arm protectively over her chest and grips her upper arm tight.

“I got you,” he promises.

 

 


End file.
